


Reichenbach Calls

by Ailorian



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Multi, Murder Mystery, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailorian/pseuds/Ailorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saw a prompt on Tumblr a while back that suggested a story where Sherlock calls from an unlisted number and always hangs up before John can say "Sherlock, is that you?" and then doesn't know John is crying that whole time. </p>
<p>With that came the pun-fueled title "Riechenbach Calls" and I was disappointed in my punness so I tried to think of a reason for it to be less punny and more a legitimately clever title. I remembered that Reichenbach is (apparently) Richard Brooks in German, so now Reichenbach Calls is literal.</p>
<p>As in, this is a story about how John receives a call from Moriarty more than a year after the double suicide that ended Moriarty vs. Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Craving Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and all the characters involved here are belong to BBC. This is purely a fanfiction and is not being shared for financial gain, only amusement. 
> 
> The phone call idea was taken from a Tumblr prompt (still looking for the original post, I'll get back to that)

Three hundred forty nine days since Sherlock's death. Eighteen days since the last visit to the cemetery. Thirty eight hours since the last text that had been sent to Sherlock's abandoned mobile phone number. Four hundred seconds since the last time he glanced at the wall, still untouched, still plastered and punctured with Sherlock's last notes.

John’s mind has become more calculating in his self-imposed solitude, mimicking what he can recall of Sherlock’s amazing talents. He stares at the wall, slowly realizing answers Sherlock had recognized instantly; the story starts to pull together while he watches, astonished. For a long moment, he wonders if this was the cause of the genius detective’s seemingly cold heart. It feels easier this way, reading in a chilled and calm manner, seeing each clue as a written line in a book.

The device is in his hand, message box opened to Sherlock’s name. But that number shouldn’t matter anymore. The inbox full of messages signed simply ‘SH’ is what matters now. A box of memories.

He hits reply anyway.

Glancing down at the phone in his hand, the world's only, fraudulent, genius, consulting detective bit his lip to keep the swelling bead of salt water from curling itself over his eyelashes.

I wish you were here. -JW

His thumbs shake, poised over the keyboard as he struggles with the impulse to reply. It gets stronger every time, tempting him with three simple words that would ease all the pain in his wounded companion's heart. The facade must be maintained, Sherlock reminds himself. Until the whole of Moriarty's operation had been dismantled, John was still in danger.

‘Maybe next time.’ Sherlock whispers. Knowing next time isn't nearly far enough away, and not nearly soon enough either.

John drops his phone carelessly on the desk, dragging his hands down his face in defeat. He knows Sherlock will not, can not respond. The number has long been disconnected, and his flatmate’s device discarded in the estate closing; without the genius detective, it was useless anyway.

Lifting himself from the chair, John moves towards the bedroom beyond the kitchen, unable to maneuver himself upstairs, held down by the crushing weight of his lost mate. The sheets don't smell like him anymore, and the rooms had forgotten his voice.

Johns dinner waits, uneaten, on the table, while he pulls the sheets around him. It’s not even eight in the evening, and with the days growing longer the sun is still visible between the white curtains. Sarah had called earlier, he reminds himself, and he must be well rested for a shift at the clinic.

Obviously, he could not simply cease to live his life. Sarah claimed they would be short staffed without him, but he knew, she knew. Uncertain whether to be comforted or abashed, John closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow as he rolled onto his stomach.

‘Isn’t there anything else? Anywhere more to look?’ Sherlock murmurs, trying to keep his voice even while Mycroft stares at him, his hands resting on the table, fingers interlaced.

‘I’m afraid our available intelligence in this manner has run dry.’ Mycroft explains casually, his pride obviously stung by this failure. ‘Moriarty’s network is simply too spread out, more safeguarded than the most successful drug-circles and mafias. He kept his agents and victims separated as much as was necessary to protect himself.’

‘Pathetic.’ Sherlock spat, standing quickly and pacing across the room.

Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he was reminded of the scruffy growth he had been forced to employ when traveling. It only took one person pointing and whispering to their companion to ruin everything. The curls were impossible to control, and though he had tried changing their color, the maintenance had become irritatingly superfluous. Fortunately, letting the face hair grow took absolutely no effort, and any nondescript hat hid his shaggy hair just fine.

‘There is little else we can do.’ Mycroft muttered finally, standing to gather his case and umbrella. ‘If you prefer, I can make you comfortable elsewhere.’

‘What about John?’ Sherlock asked immediately, not bothering to hide his concern. Mycroft hesitated.

‘I can make arrangements for him to join you.’ He murmured after a moment, but Sherlock was already shaking his head.

‘I can’t ask him to give up everyone we knew, all the people in his life.’ Sherlock’s voice shook as he mentally listed the people John would miss; all the ones that deserved to be in his life in ways the short-term flatmate did not.

‘Then, I can make arrangements for his perpetual upkeep.’ Mycroft offered, his voice softened. Sherlock quirked an accusatory brow at him.

‘Keep him at 221b.’

‘Of course.’ Big brother growled. ‘He won’t leave Mrs. Hudson in any case.’

‘He should keep working, if only to make him leave the flat each week.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Don’t let him know that we’re helping.’ Sherlock paced faster, shoving his hands into the pockets of his intentionally rugged jeans. ‘He mustn’t notice any meddling.’

John sits on the far side of his little desk; bright sunshine warms his back, making the jumper rather uncomfortable. The young woman across from him rambles off symptoms, complaining of headaches, cramps, discomfort, engorged appetite.

‘Likely you’re pregnant.’ He mutters, stopping her incessant whining.

‘What?’ She asks, astonished.

‘I can run a test to confirm, or you can buy one at any pharmacy.’

‘I’m not pregnant.’ She argues. But John already disagrees.

She’s obviously gained weight in the last three months, given that her shirt is tight enough for the two-cup-sizes-too-small bra to show through perfectly; the stains on her windbreaker, and the pile of napkins wedged into her purse suggest that she’s already lactating, and given the list of complaints, there was little else to which any doctor would attribute her ailment.

‘Just to be certain,’ He mumbles. ‘I suggest you take the test and make sure before I do anything further. If you aren’t pregnant, it may get a bit more expensive and uncomfortable.’ He doesn’t include the next even slightly viable options being a tumor, a tapeworm, or crohn's disease.

Unexpectedly, John’s pocket vibrates, and he reaches in to pull out his mobile. The caller is unlisted, but he can’t stop himself from hitting the answer button and pressing it to his ear.

‘Hello?’ He asks quietly, while the patient stares at him in disbelief. How rude, she must be thinking, but he finds he doesn’t much care.

There’s no answer. John opens his mouth, knowing what will come falling out. The line clicks dead just as he whispers.

‘Sherlock?’ It isn’t, he knows, it won’t be ever again.

Just one more miracle, he prays silently. His chest constricts while his heart tries to tear itself free.

‘Sherlock?’ The patient asks, confused. John turns angry eyes on her, ready to defend against anything she might have read about him, with a loud, violent tone and some profane language. Seeing his expression, however, she falls quiet, and after a moment of hesitation, excuses herself entirely.

‘Remind me not to assign you hormonal young women anymore.’ Sarah comments casually, as John collects his coat for the evening. Sherlock’s blue scarf is tucked into the pocket, and he pulls it out to wrap around his throat.

‘Sorry.’ John mumbles in reply, not really meaning it.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock slams the phone against its hook again, smashing the little lever with two fingers to recollect his coins.

‘Idiot.’ He mutters to himself. ‘Anything, anything.’ After hours of stress fueled practice, he hadn’t managed a word. All he had to do was introduce himself as a sales manager, or a phone surveyor. Something that would keep John on for a minute, just long enough to inform the stranger that he wasn’t interested. Even insults and verbal abuse would be better at this point.

Hello was all it took. Sherlock’s throat constricted, preventing anything even remotely similar to a sound from escaping. It had taken all his willpower not to shout the man’s name, to gasp or give a pained sigh.

‘Sentiment.’ He spat, mocking himself. But he knows he must try again.

John wakes up to a curious knock, rising unsteadily from Sherlock’s bed, grabbing his cane, and making his way across the flat to find Mrs. Hudson at the door. She tells him it’s been two days since he left the house. John can only recall one; then again, he spent most of that staring at his computer screen, the post page of his blog waiting. The little indicator flashing on an empty text box; mocking his misery.

Nothing ever happens to me.

‘Have you eaten?’ She asks with real concern, and John glances down, suspecting he has lost weight. He can’t give her an answer. ‘I’ve got stew downstairs.’ She continues. ‘Just let me get you a bowl.’

Phone in his pocket begins to vibrate, and John pulls it out to answer without even looking at the unlisted number.

‘Hello?’ He mutters, sighing heavily as his stupid heart flutters the same way it had yesterday, despite knowing that the unabashedly hopeful thought would be crushed beneath realty in only a moment.

There’s no word on the other line, just like yesterday.

‘Sher-’ The line clicked dead. Clenching his eyes shut, John fights the tears as they threaten; his breath coming in gasps and half-broken sobs. When Mrs. Hudson arrives at the top of the stairs, it is to find an empty living room, now that John has locked himself in the Sherlock’s bedroom.

Curled up in the white sheets, face completely immersed in the cotton pillows, his whole body quakes as he fights to control himself.

For weeks, John answers unlisted phone calls, listening to a few moments of silence before the line dies. Each time, he makes sure to say ‘hello’ first, to avoid looking the fool. Each time, he knows there will be no answer, but that stupid little inkling in his chest tricks him.

For weeks, John whispers ‘Sherlock, is that you?’ Never able to get the words out before the line clicks dead. He knows he should start with this question, in order to catch whoever is calling off guard, but for some masochistic reason, it becomes a comfort not to know for certain.

On the days that there is no call, John lays awake wondering why. There’s never more than one per day, or more than five in a week. He leaves his phone on more, screening calls from names and faces already saved in his contact list. But the unlisted ones always get answered, immediately, in all company.

Just in case.

‘I know what you’ve been up to.’ Mycroft warns during their monthly meeting; coffee in a family corner cafe. ‘You’re not doing him any favors with your antics.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Sherlock drawls, gazing out the rainy window with a stoic face. Behind his iron mask of disinterest, Mycroft has failed to notice the hardened anger, the darkness that began to cloud the fantastic and amazing. Only the sound of John’s voice gave Sherlock the control required to carry on his mission.

‘How have you been fairing?’ His older brother asks in a dry tone, but its obvious he wants to know the real answer. ‘Not too bored, I hope.’

There were plenty of things Mycroft had failed to notice, including the long line of low-level criminals showing up with missing fingers, iron brands burned into their flesh, ears boxed off or eyelids removed.

There were plenty of things Sherlock had taught himself how to do, to make a man speak, to find the blood trail beyond the paper, to get the answers he needed.

There were plenty of things left to accomplish before Sherlock could go back.


	2. Cause for Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plot-line reveals itself!!! Here's where I went with the punny title: crime on baker street (documented, look it up I dare you.) and it looks like John might be in some hot water :S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and all the characters involved here are belong to BBC. This is purely a fanfiction and is not being shared for financial gain, only amusement.

John wakes up to police sirens on the street outside, struggling to free himself from the tangled sheets; pulling on clothes as quickly as possible, he ambles towards the windows in the front of the flat. Outside the whole street is alight with flashing blue and red.

Glancing at his cane by the front door, John wonders if it isn’t worth the effort of making his way outside. Lestrade might have made social advances when the incident first occurred, but that sense of obligation came from something other than a legitimate interest in John’s company.

By dawn, John has set himself down with a pot of hot tea, a paper, and the comfort of silence as the last of the police cars takes its leave. The sensation in his breast pocket alerts him to a call, and John pulls it out quickly, glancing to see the unlisted number before flipping it open.

This time, John thought silently, say it this time. As much as he enjoyed reveling in the self-abuse brought on by each silent, ten second call, his suspicions needed to be confirmed or denied.

‘Sherlock, is that you?’ John asks quickly, holding his breath to await an answer.

‘Hellooooo.’ A disturbingly familiar, intentionally high pitched voice drawled snidely. John’s heart stops in his chest, freezing his breath in place.

‘Moriarty?’ The battle hardened army doctor whispers.

‘Let Sherlock Holmes try to solve this.’ That voice, so disgustingly recognizable, John cringes. The phone clicks, and the line is dead.

****

'Detective Inspector.' Mycroft greets the jean-clad gentleman as he takes a seat across the table from him. 'Thank you for meeting me.'

'I figured you’d contact me.' Lestrade murmurs unhappily, resting his elbows on the table. 'It was stupid of us to ignore the idiot with the radio interference, but the minute I saw the note, I knew something was more than wrong.'

'Do you have it with you?' Mycroft asks him, indicating with a tilt of his head towards the shoulder bag with evidence tape visible through the open zipper.

'Yes.' Lestrade growls. 'Though it might cost my job, just bringing it here.'

'You’ve made worse decisions on behalf of my little brother.' Mycroft muses quietly, quirking a brow. 'This note is cause of great concern, is it not?'

'For all we can tell, it’s a joke.' Lestrade argues, knowing how unlikely that is. ‘Bastard’s arrogant.’

'But you know it isn’t.' Mycroft whispers.

Dragging his hands down his face, Lestrade sighs heavily; just his luck, the older brother was as observant as the younger.

After Sherlock’s death, nearly a year gone by now, the over abundance of crime caused by the consulting criminal’s influence had staggered and dropped. Crime wasn’t gone, but it certainly hadn’t been at the caliber that required Sherlock’s intellect around every turn. Heroes attract villains, as any comic book fan could tell you.

Now, even with Sherlock gone, someone was trying to play his game.

'What precisely does it say?' Mycroft asks, holding out his hand expectantly. Lestrade reaches into his pack and pulls out the red-tape-sealed evidence bag.

'Let Sherlock Holmes try to solve this.'

‘Given the amount of media coverage regarding his suicide, it seems silly for a low-level criminal to issue such a challenge.’

‘Well, low-level did manage to tunnel into Lloyd Bank’s vault.’ Lestrade explains, his tone sour. ‘On Baker Street, no less, and everyone knows that’s where he lived. Not to mention, five million quid isn’t something to blink at.’

‘I trust you are capable of keeping the details of this case out of the public eye.’ Mycroft murmurs. ‘If not, I have the ability to issue a D-notice, though that frequently causes unwanted suspicion-based attention by theorists.’

‘You may have to.’ Lestrade mumbles grumpily. ‘I trust my team with my life in the field, but I don’t trust them with Sherlock’s name dripping in blood. It’s too tempting to bad mouth him.’ Mycroft nods slowly.

‘I’ll take care of it then.’ Mycroft mutters, gathering his umbrella as he prepares to leave.

‘There’s one other thing that concerns me.’ Lestrade mentions, stopping him. ‘You may want to know.’

‘What?’

‘There are fingerprints on the scene, and a strand of hair found by my forensics team.’

‘And?’ Mycroft asks, his eyebrows pulling towards his hair as he wonders why that could possibly matter to him. ‘Have you got a match, a suspect?’

‘Yes.’ Lestrade mumbles uncomfortably. ‘Military database matched all the fingerprints and DNA from the hair to Doctor John H. Watson.’

‘Good lord.’

****

A knock at the door prompts John to set his computer down. Even with the excitement of the night before, he hasn’t managed to write more than a sentence regarding the pre-dawn disturbance. Just the seven steps from his chair to the door requires him to grab his cane as he stands. Opening the door so that it isn’t immediately visible, John finds Lestrade standing at the door.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, John.’ Lestrade mumbles. ‘May I come in?’

‘Sure, sure.’ Stepping aside, John holds the door open more, lifting his arm to invite the detective inspector inside. ‘Can I get you anything?’ He asks automatically, unsure of anything available in the deserted kitchen.

‘I’m fine.’ Lestrade tells him, waving off the offer.

‘What’s it about, then?’ John asks, always ready to get to the point. Lestrade sighs.

‘S’pose you heard the sirens last night?’

‘Yea.’ John nods, staring at the floor. ‘Lot of noise, really.’

‘May I have a seat?’ He only asks so that John won’t continue standing there, leaning on the cane like a life preserver.

‘Sure.’ But the doctor stays standing. ‘What’s this about, then?’ Lestrade gives a small smile as he sets himself on the edge of the black leather chair.

‘Right to the point, I guess.’ Lestrade murmurs. ‘Where were you last night between the hours of 7pm and 4am?’ John’s eyes widen for a moment, considering the implications of the question; he clears his throat.

‘Here, all night. Why?’

‘Anyone who can vouch for that?’ Sighing heavily, John finally takes a seat, setting his cane against the table beside him.

‘Perhaps Ms. Hudson.’ He answers honestly. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Can’t tell you much.’ Lestrade warns.

Even when John was assisting Sherlock on site of every job, even when the detective inspector trusted him to be the professional, the maturity, the conscience, John was never supposed to be involved, never supposed to know as much as he did.

There was nothing Lestrade could do to make John not involved now; only this time the evidence forced him into the chair of prime suspect. It didn’t matter what Lestrade knew about him. Until they found evidence that pointed a different direction, John was in dangerous waters.

‘The police responded to a break-in last night.’

‘Up the street?’

‘Lloyd’s Bank. Someone tunneled into the vault.’ Lestrade sighs; part of him knowing he can trust John, and part wondering if he should at all. ‘Left a clever little note.’

‘I can probably guess what it says.’ John mutters sadly. ‘Let--’

‘Don’t.’ Lestrade’s sharp tone causes John to startle, glancing up at him curiously. ‘John don’t say anything more.’ One eyebrow crawls upward while the doctor stares at him.

‘What’s. Going. On.” He asks slowly. Lestrade sighs again, standing to walk off the nervous energy that hums through him.

‘Forensics found fingerprints in the vault, and on the tunnel leading to it.’ He spits out, trying to keep his voice even. ‘As well as a hair follicle.’ John continues to stare at him, confused. ‘Both of them match your military records.’

‘That’s not possible.’ John mutters incredulously.

‘I’ve had the analysis run over and over.’ Lestrade tells him quietly. ‘It’s not a false positive.’

‘I didn’t. I couldn’t.’ His voice flustered, John puts a hand over his eyes. ‘Somebody--’

‘Planted it.’ Lestrade agrees. ‘But who? And why?’ The two of them sit in silence for a moment, contemplating the situation. John struggles with the decision to inform Lestrade of his discomfiting phone call, and then realizes trusting the detective inspector might be his only lifeline.

‘I received a phone call yesterday.’ Lestrade looks at him, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘That’s why I think I know what the note says.’

‘Who was it? What did they say?’

‘Let Sherlock Holmes try to solve this.’ John recites it, easily verbatim, hearing the words echo in his memory clearly. ‘Doesn’t matter that he’s been dead nearly a year. That man strapped a bomb vest on me, I’ll never forget the sound of his voice.’

‘Moriarty?’ Lestrade nearly gasped, sighing heavily while his eyes rolled upwards. ‘You’re certain.’ It was almost a question, but the steeled look in John’s eyes gave Lestrade his answer, just not the one he wanted. John closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose while his shoulders sink.

‘No, no, no.’ Pacing, Lestrade starting chanting. ‘We closed that file, Moriarty was shot on the roof at St. Bart’s.’

‘DNA-tests are only as good as the records you keep.’ John quoted the Woman, remembering how she had tricked the great and powerful Mycroft Holmes. ‘Even Sherlock hadn’t proved the truth around the identity of James Moriarty or Richard Brooks.’

The two of them stared at one another for a long moment, each thinking the same thing.

‘If Moriarty’s come back from the dead.’ Lestrade began.

‘What are the chances Sherlock’s on his way?’ John finished for him, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Damn it all, his chest began to swell with hope. All the terror in the world was worth enduring if it meant he might see his friend again.

Just one more miracle.

 


	3. Suspicions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and all the characters involved here are belong to BBC. This is purely a fanfiction and is not being shared for financial gain, only amusement.

‘NO!’ Sherlock shouted, standing quickly enough to knock his chair backwards and topple it. ‘I was there! I watched him fire a bullet through his own skull!’

‘It isn’t that I don’t believe you.’ Mycroft muttered, losing his patience. ‘I am simply relaying the information available.’

‘For months! Months! We’ve been riding these leads.’ Sherlock stomped across the room, pulling at his curls in frustration. ‘There’s no sign of him anywhere and suddenly John is a suspect in a bank robbery?!’

‘It appears that way, yes.’ Mycroft’s impetuously calm tone was scathing, condemning his younger brother’s loss of constitution in the face of undesired revelations. ‘You’re not the only dead man to contact him, it seems.’ Sherlock scoffs at the jab and continues to pace, pulling at the hair on his chin, sliding his sleeves up and down his arms.

‘I have to prove him innocent.’ Sherlock murmured after a long moment of silence.

‘There isn’t much evidence in his favor.’ Mycroft mentions quietly. ‘The DNA and fingerprints place him on the scene, even in the tunnel, which was completed that same evening.’

‘The man’s been walking with a cane for half a year!’ Sherlock was shouting again, twirling in place while he struggled with the violent impulses he had begun to relish. ‘John has never had a desire for wealth or power. He’s an army doctor, a civil servant and a soldier. He want’s for nothing.’

‘That’s not entirely true.’ Mycroft interrupts him in a soft voice, giving the younger brother pause.

‘What could possibly compel an honest and just man like John Watson to take up bank robbery?’ Sighing heavily, Mycroft shrugs noncommittally.

‘We must consider the fact that John is the only witness to the alleged Moriarty phone call, which is his excuse for knowing what the note in the vault read.’

‘John wouldn’t.’

‘It is obvious that he has somewhat changed, since your apparent departure from this world.’ Mycroft continues, unfettered by Sherlock’s argument. ‘His limp and tremors have returned, he’s short tempered, doesn’t leave the flat or speak for days.’

‘That doesn’t make him a criminal.’

‘No.’ Mycroft looks towards the window; one small square glowing with midday sunlight. ‘How many times have you called him now? Dozens?’

‘I’ve lost count.’ Sherlock murmurs with feigned disinterest, glaring at the wall behind Mycroft’s head as if he could set it on fire with the intensity in his eyes.

‘Do you know what he does when you hang up?’ The older brother asks, his tone innocent but dangerous. Sherlock shakes his head slowly. ‘He weeps.’ Mycroft explains shortly. ‘For hours, curled up on his side in your bed.’

‘Shut up.’ Sherlock growls.

‘And when you don’t call.’ Big brother continues, uninhibited. ‘He lays awake all night, staring at his computer screen as if it may tell him why.’

‘I said Shut UP!’

‘He knows it’s you.’ Mycroft adds petulantly. ‘Every single time, he whispers your name just as you’ve gone to hang up.’

‘That doesn’t make him a criminal.’ Sherlock mutters, trying to return to the point while his chest begins to ache with emptiness.

‘No, but if he is convinced you’re alive, perhaps this is an attempt to have you returned to him.’ Sherlock chuckles maliciously, only slightly surprised by Mycroft’s train of thought. ‘He may be trying to bring back Moriarty simply to have you chase him out of hiding.’

‘John isn’t some master criminal.’ He argues. ‘He wouldn’t rob a bank to get my attention. He’s much too straightforward for that.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Mycroft drawls in a bored tone. ‘But he will remain under investigation and surveillance until something else comes to light regarding the whole affair.’

‘How is it you don’t have an iron alibi for him?’ Sherlock asked snidely. ‘I’d bet you had the whole flat monitored. The whole street even.’

‘I don’t have the time or manpower to maintain that sort of surveillance for a ex-army-doctor.’ Mycroft retorted ‘Regardless of my little brother’s feelings towards him.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Most of what I know comes directly from Mrs. Hudson.’ Shrugging, he stood from his seat, preparing to leave. ‘She’s quite a reliable source, but she was in bed asleep when the break in occurred. The only eyes we had on 221B were out front, and John wasn’t visible from the street past 10 pm.’

‘Astounding.’ Sherlock growls. ‘That anyone considers you useful.’

‘It was pleasant visiting with you, little brother.’ Mycroft mumbles, moving towards the exit. ‘Until next time, then.’


	4. Procedural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some stuffing. Sorry I'm not really any sort of reliable. I started this thinking it would go nowhere. Hopefully, I'll be able to pull my head out of my ass long enough to be worthy of the support I've received. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and all the characters involved here are belong to BBC. This is purely a fanfiction and is not being shared for financial gain, only amusement.

The next morning, Lestrade arrives with several unknown faces, whom John presumed to be unfamiliar members of his squad. Holding up a rather extensive search warrant, the detective inspector gives the army doctor a forlorn expression, his apologies written into the lines of his face. John accepts the parcel with tight fingers, gripping his cane desperately as he moves to stand beside the window.

‘It can’t be helped, John.’ Lestrade tells him an hour later. There’s no avarice this time, not the way they were when the flat was being searched for Sherlock’s potential stash, but that doesn’t mean anything is being treated respectfully. Several times, John resists the urge to shout as they move and swab and examine the delicate glassware still left in the kitchen.

After a while, John takes his seat, deciding that a crossword puzzle is a better use of his restlessness while his home is turned topsy turvy. It’s mid afternoon before Lestrade calls a halt, and the team slowly begins siphoning out the door. Glancing around, John scowls, wondering how many days it will take to return to his original level of squalor.

‘I am sorry.’ Lestrade murmurs, leaning against the desk now that the rest of his team has dispersed. ‘Doubt we’ve found anything to confirm you were home last night, but at least there’s nothing remotely damnable here either.’ Sighing, he rests his hands against the desk behind him, staring at the ground.

‘No sign of him yet.’ John mutters, receiving a short shake of the head. ‘I dunno what to do if this makes it to trial.’ His voice softens. ‘My only alibi is my leg.’

‘If you can prove you were physically incapable of entering the tunnel, let alone carving it out, I doubt anyone will convict you.’ Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Still, I wish there was something more solid, to get you off the short list.’

‘Shall I come in for an official statement of some sort?’

‘If you’d like, it’ll be worth it to have your version of the evening on tape.’ Lestrade shrugged one shoulder. ‘Though, I’m not entirely sure about the phone call yet.’

‘After the way the public accepted Moriarty’s ploy.’ John paused, trying not to glance at the detective inspector. ‘I doubt I’ll win any favor by blaming an alleged figment of Sherlock’s imagination.’ Lestrade swallows, turning his head away, a bit guiltily.

John turns to stare at the ground. Lestrade had fallen into the trap, in no small thanks to idiots like Anderson and Donovan. It was part of the reason they hadn’t spoken in so long. Still, John was confident that the detective inspector was on board now, however late. That was likely John’s only saving grace.

After his friend’s death, John had gone on a war charge, desperate to prove the genius detective right. With the help of several old clients, persons in the media, and others who had encountered the maddening brilliance, there had been awash with stories confirming the existence of Moriarty. Unfortunately, by then the greater public had lost interest in the scandal, and the revelations were dismissed. After all, the man had jumped off of a building, and what good was that if not to silence a guilty conscience. Only John, and more recently, Lestrade, believed there might be a different motivator.

Now, it seemed, there may be an entirely new ending to that fairy tale.

‘We’ll figure something out.’ Lestrade tells him, voice confident as he straightens himself. ‘Why not come down to the Yard this evening, after hours so no one’s lingering. I’ll get your statement and make bits off the record as necessary.’

‘Thank you.’ John murmurs, turning to meet the man’s gaze with a sincere face. There is no way to portray how grateful he is. Lestrade nods, before letting himself out and closing the door behind him.

Almost immediately, John lifts his mobile from his pocket, turning to the sent messages in a moment. Warring emotions make his stomach overturn itself, while bile fills his throat. Clenching his teeth, John opens another message box.

I might need some help. JW

Despite the swelling hope threatening to consume him, threatening to send him back to those first few months where he spent every day waiting to hear that familiar footfall on the stairs, to find the man awake for the fifteenth hour in a row, poised before his computer with patches running up his arm, to awake to the smell of burning chemicals and immediately spring for his gas mask.

It had never happened, still hadn’t. As much as John wanted to believe otherwise, it was likely never to happen. The sensation of Sherlock’s wrist against his hand, completely docile; John knows how impossible it is for his friend to be alive.

Worse than that, he reasons, even if the genius consulting detective was alive, after all this time, why would he bother returning now? There were more important things in life than a gimp invalided ex doctor flatmate getting charged with robbery.


End file.
